


Absence

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, M/M, Sex Post-Castration, Tears, Traumatized Valjean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-02 00:51:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6543763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valjean could not say what he wanted, save that, he thought, heart still pounding, he would prefer to have this over with: Javert taking his pleasure of him, with no more hesitation or doubt or pity. As though everything between them was normal.</p><p>As though Valjean were complete. As though he wasn't...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NotAnymore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAnymore/gifts).



> Thank you to f. for the beta help!

“I want to...” Javert broke off.

Valjean listened to the sound of Javert's breathing, which filled the quiet bedroom. It was almost loud enough to drown out the sound of his own rapid heartbeat.

Javert licked his lips. “We don't have to,” he began again, his voice subdued.

Valjean watched a stray beam of sunlight paint pictures onto Javert's forearm. They were bare, covered with short, dark hairs. The lace of the curtain traced intricate shadows on them.

Valjean had learned to trust those arms. He had. He truly had. But could he trust with _this_?

Again Javert swallowed. Slowly, tentatively, his hand came to rest on Valjean's thigh, below the hem of his nightshirt.

They had touched before. Or rather, Valjean had touched Javert. He had not minded. In its own way, it had been a blessing to find that he could touch and give pleasure. Valjean had been scared then, too, but it had warmed something deep within him to see Javert surrender to his touch, overcome by pleasure as Valjean made him gasp and sigh with every move of his hand.

But this was different.

“I just thought I could...” Another long pause. Then Javert's hand slipped beneath the shirt.

Valjean tensed. Not because he minded if Javert wanted to touch, but because he feared what he might eventually come to see in Javert's eyes. The disappointment.

Or worse. Pity.

It was not so bad. In truth, he had never missed it, and for so long had thought that he would have had no use for it anyway. But here, in bed with Javert, whose large hands could learn to be gentle, he could not help but wonder sometimes whether his body in turn might have learned to want.

Valjean had waited too long with his answer. Javert's hand drew up another inch, raising the hem of his shirt with it.

“I... I read. And asked,” Javert admitted, voice hushed. “Not for me, you must believe that. Just if...” Javert's hand trembled against his skin for a moment.

“Just if it could be pleasurable for you that way. I want to make you feel good.”

“You do make me feel good.” Valjean's voice shook as he admitted it. How strange. He had thought that he had better control of himself. It had happened so long ago. He had never missed it, that much was true; what use for it would he have had?

But something about the way Javert touched him brought back old pain and uncertainty. And now, with Javert's large hand slowly inching up his thigh, he could feel it as he had felt it those first few days.

An absence. Not an ache—simply an emptiness. A silence where there should be a pulse. Before his mind's eye, he saw a field covered in snow, untouched and cold, where Javert's words and whispers should singe him with their heat instead.

Against his thigh, his shaft curled, small and soft. Experience had shown that with some patience, Javert's touch could rouse it to hardness. It embarrassed him, but he had allowed Javert to try; it embarrassed him more to deny Javert this, when it seemed to mean so much to him.

Valjean took a deep breath.

“We can try,” he said quietly, surrendering himself to this, too, just as he had surrendered himself to life at both Javert's and Cosette's insistence. “You will promise me you will not be disappointed if...?”

“Nothing about you could disappoint me, ever,” Javert murmured, face buried against his neck, a tinge of embarrassment in his voice.

What was he embarrassed for—asking for this? Or perhaps, after all, for the reality of what he was about to uncover now...

Valjean reached down and closed his hand around Javert's, squeezing gently in reassurance.

“I will be pleased by...” _By your pleasure._ He could not say such a thing. Javert would feel guilty. “Just by feeling you close. This _is_ pleasure, Javert. Never doubt it.”

Javert exhaled against his neck, pressed a kiss to it. Then his hands drew up the shirt once more.

“Take it off,” Valjean said, suddenly reckless, even though his heart was pounding in his chest. But if he had decided to surrender, why not surrender all, give himself up completely and hope that such a sacrifice would be enough?

He tried to breathe deeply when Javert pulled the shirt off. It was warm in the room, and yet he had to fight the urge to draw up the blanket or cross his arms.

Foolish to feel so shy after so many years that had left their marks on this old body. Was Javert not aware of every single year that had been engraved into his skin?

Javert's lips brushed his shoulder again. His hands, once made to grip, now touched him with gentleness, almost awe—and Valjean did not want that either.

Valjean could not say what he wanted, save that, he thought, heart still pounding, he would prefer to have this over with: Javert taking his pleasure of him, with no more hesitation or doubt or pity. As though everything between them was normal.

As though Valjean were complete. As though he wasn't...

A choked sound escaped him when he was gently turned to his side. He stretched himself out in willingness, listening to the echo of his blood in his ears as Javert's hands trailed down his body, lingering at his thighs.

Valjean allowed them to spread, frightened not of what would come, but frightened that Javert might choose to wait, to ask, to acknowledge what made them different. It was too much. Even after all these years, he could barely bear the shame to have another know.

And to have another _see_...

Javert's mouth trailed downward, slow but relentless. Valjean panted, his prick still soft. He could feel his pulse between his legs now, fast with terror. The muscles of his thighs trembled as he had to keep from clenching his legs together.

Why could Javert not simply take what he wanted? Valjean would not mind, he truly would not. Javert's pleasure was reward enough, or perhaps the simple fact that Javert craved such closeness. Pleasure seemed an alien concept to Valjean, but hearing Javert's soft sounds of need for him warmed something within him. It was enough. It had been enough so far. Why could Javert not simply be satisfied with that?

Javert's mouth brushed the back of his thighs now. Valjean could barely breathe. Silently, he allowed Javert to part his legs and spread him open. The air was cold between his legs. His cock was still soft, cringing away from the heated, focused gaze that had to be lingering there.

Then Javert's mouth kissed him. His lips were strangely hot, and they kissed him right _there_ , tender against the brutality of the scar that marked the skin where once the pouch holding his testes had rested.

Valjean struggled to breathe. Something heavy seemed to rest on his chest. There was a sudden pricking of tears in his eyes, and the longer Javert's lips lingered, the more the tight control he'd had on his body seemed to slip away from him.

He fought to draw in a deep breath; it turned into a sob.

Still Javert was kissing him there, not speaking, not moving, not demanding anything from him but this most frightening surrender of all, that acknowledgment of what was gone. Javert's mouth was relentlessly tender as he forced them both to focus on where Valjean was different, that absence of what was full and heavy between Javert's own legs.

Then Javert moved, that cruel mouth finally releasing him. In the silence, Valjean listened to his own labored breathing, forcing back the tears that could not fall, not now, not after so many years.

It had never made a difference for him. Why did Javert have to force him to let it matter now?

After a moment, Javert's mouth was back at his nape, Javert curling against his back while Valjean rested on his side, silent, waiting, frightened of his own courage. Javert's fingers were between his legs now, slick with oil as they trailed against his thigh—and then, slow, gentle but determined, a fingertip traced around the rim of his hole.

“Let me try,” Javert whispered, his voice hushed. “Let me... please tell me if...”

Valjean shivered, nervous and overexcited. He should reassure Javert. He should find words to tell him once more that Valjean agreed to whatever his plans were. He should try to find some way to lessen Javert's guilt, for that must be what had brought this all about.

But Valjean couldn't. He could only listened to his panicked heartbeat echo through him, nervously clenching his hands into the sheets as the pressure increased, the tip of Javert's finger slipping inside him.

A soft gasp escaped him; he bit his lip, his face hot. Sweat ran down his nape. It felt... he had no words for it. Shameful. He shuddered, anxious and overwhelmed. It was too intimate, to be touched there, to feel Javert touch him inside. Once more he squeezed his eyes shut, a first tear running down his cheek. How would he be able to bear this? Javert's focus was too much. Javert's care and attention.

“You've never...?” Javert now asked, breathless against his skin, voice rough, and Valjean shook his head wordlessly.

“If you do not want me to—” Javert began, and Valjean swallowed back another sob. His skin felt as though it was on fire. Excitement and anxiety crawled beneath his skin, little pricks of pain and terror, and he couldn't, he couldn't...

“Don't stop,” he choked out, because if they stopped now, the shame would be too great, he wouldn't be able to bear Javert looking at him ever again.

Javert hesitated for a moment, then his lips found his shoulder again, breathing calmly against him even as his finger slowly slipped deeper inside, feeling him from the inside while Valjean tried to control his breathing. It moved very slowly. The sensation was strange. There was nothing pleasurable about it – but at the same time, it did not hurt either. It made him feel strangely sensitive. The shame was still there, but he closed his eyes, breathing shallowly, trying to concentrate on the heat of Javert's breath against his skin instead of the shame of being penetrated so, his body opened and examined in a way no one else had ever done.

“Tell me if it—” Javert murmured, his breath coming faster now.

When Javert shifted a little, Valjean could feel that he was hard, Javert's cock thick and hot against the sensitive underside of his own thigh. Valjean was still small and soft, high-strung like a horse, shuddering at every gentle, rocking motion of the digit within him.

Now it was joined by a second finger. Valjean felt the stretch. It was no ache, but it was better, more certain than the strange, fluttering feeling of the first finger inside him. This was easier to bear; distinct, physical sensation, and his terrified heart calmed a little as he found how easily he could bear it, relieved by the way his body relaxed at his command, opening up to Javert's exploration despite his fears.

Javert's lips brushed his shoulders. “Here, tell me,” he murmured again, both fingers sliding within him now so that Valjean thought of tendrils, roots, and then they twisted a little and suddenly the pressure within made him gasp. He was _full_ , full and not aching, and every gentle twist and turn within him now made him gasp, made something gather low in his belly, heat spreading in his thighs, muscles tensing as some instinct made him spread his legs more, his hole relaxing around the invading fingers to ask for more, more, more of something he'd never known before.

“Valjean?” Javert asked, breathless now, and Valjean could only gasp, fingers grasping the sheets.

“Please,” he said, almost did not recognize his voice when the word escaped as a breathless moan.

Javert pressed another kiss to his back, his fingers still moving, slow and relentless like the sea as they massaged inside, and Valjean felt the tide lapping at his insides, vast and merciless, immense and frightening as the waves into which he had once tossed himself. Now the tide took hold of him and carried him, pressure within him pulsing and growing until he was trembling, until, dizzy, he realized that he was hardening, pleasure making him tremble beneath Javert's hands.

The slide of Javert's fingers within him wrought sparks of heat, his entire body tightening and striving towards something, something...

"Please, Javert," he said again, his voice rough with the overwhelmed tears he could not stop from falling. And what if nothing else would come of this? Javert had said—but he might be incapable of it now. He had never once, in all those years...

His thoughts twisted, incapable of following that line when the pressure of Javert's tender, wicked fingers loving him from within made everything melt away.

And what if he was not capable? His heart was racing, his body covered in sweat, everything was heat and tension. If this was all he could have from being intimate with Javert it would be enough.

"I want it. I want it!" he gasped again, Javert's lips pausing against his back.

Javert did not ask if he was certain, and he was glad for that. Already this took too much deliberation, too much thought. Had Javert just done it without a word, allowed Valjean to close his eyes and pretend it didn't happen, it would have been easier.

But instead, Javert had touched and woken him with pleasure, had pressed his lips to that scar between his legs, and now Valjean did not know whether he could ever look at him again without weeping.

"Like this," he whispered, his voice breathless and rough when Javert's fingers slid out of him, his body still feeling open and soft. "Please, Javert!"

He wanted it like this: Javert taking him from behind, all of Javert's sighs and moans against his neck so that he was certain that Javert was not looking at him there. Like this, he could close his eyes, could surrender himself to the warm pressure within building heat throughout his body while pretending that nothing else mattered.

That everything else was normal.

There was a pause. Javert shifted. Then, a moment later, Javert's chest pressed against his back once more, and Valjean exhaled. Javert's skin was damp with sweat. Javert's mouth was wet and hot as it fastened to his shoulder. He could feel the slickness of oil as Javert's prick slid along his cleft, hear Javert's little groan.

Again Javert's finger teased at his hole. Valjean relaxed for it, allowing the finger to slip back inside and then out, the easy, warm glide of it making him sigh—and then Javert pushed against him again, his prick huge compared to the sensation of the careful fingertip.

A large hand curved around his thigh, holding him spread open. He surrendered into that, exhaling while Javert nuzzled at his skin, and at last Javert pushed inside.

It went easier than he had feared. Javert had used so much oil that everything felt warm and slick between his legs. His prick slid in smoothly, although Valjean choked on a breath at the immensity of the stretch. It could be borne, it could be, he told himself as he listened to the pounding of his heartbeat. All the while, Javert sank in deeper, as relentless as the tide that now lapped at his insides once more.

Where before, the twisting fingers had called up fluttering pleasure, a pulsating presence deep within him, Javert's prick simply slid in and out, slow and huge. It spread open all those parts of him that he had locked away for so long, until silent tears were running down his face at the warm pressure within him. It was immeasurable. It pulsated within his very soul. He gasped for breath as Javert kept moving until he felt like the sweet rub inside him would drive him insane, because there was nowhere for the pressure to go, and no way for the pleasure that filled him with heat to escape. And still Javert kept moving, hips rolling against his own while Valjean trembled and surrendered to it all.

A soft moan escaped him when Javert's hand closed around his prick. His shaft had swollen with pleasure, harder than it had ever been since they had cut away that part of him.

“Is this good,” Javert kept asking, breathless against his sweaty nape, “is this—do you like this?”

Valjean's mouth was open, but no words would escape as he gasped, desperate and overwhelmed. And still Javert kept moving, hips sliding against Valjean's, Javert's prick filling him with pressure and heat. His own cock ached in Javert's hand in a way he had not experienced for so many years—not since he gave himself up in Arras.

Not since they took that part of him, the cruelty reserved for dangerous recidivists.

The memory was still sharp, a blinding flash of violation, something irrevocably torn from him which no one could ever give back... But now Javert was moving inside him, Javert's hand stroking up and down his prick that was achingly hard after so many years. Everything was so new and different that he barely knew what to do.

Even now as he moaned desperately, his body tightening beneath Javert's loving manipulation, the fear was almost too great. What use was it to trust this overwhelming pleasure? Javert could not give back what had been taken. Was it not cruel of Javert to demand this after all, to give him hope when there was none? What Javert wanted of him he could not give, Valjean knew that. He had known that truth for the countless years he had lived after they had gelded him like an animal. Now, even with Javert kissing his shoulder and stroking him, the shame was so unbearable it felt like he was choking on it, a heavy weight inside his chest equaling that emptiness between his legs.

And yet Javert was relentless. Javert's fingers kept caressing, rubbing his cock with patient encouragement while he kept thrusting inside him. Javert was patient in that as well, his cock rubbing within him, again and again and again until it was unbearable, until Valjean tossed his head and moaned his despair, tense as a bow but he couldn't, he couldn't, he knew he couldn't...

It rushed through him: light coming from somewhere within him, a star of white heat expanding, washing everything away. He gasped for breath. Tears ran down his face. His body arched, trapped, impaled— and suddenly, inexplicably, complete for a moment as pleasure streamed through him. The rush of it tore away every thought but the sensation of Javert's touch within, a living, pulsing ecstasy.

There was nothing but light, nothing but the pleasure that lifted him and carried him away. Even when the tension abated at last, the tide receding and leaving him damp with sweat and exhausted, his nerves were raw and trembling still so that it was nearly impossible to make sense of what had happened.

He turned his head, for the first time seeking out Javert. The kiss was messy and uncomfortable with the way he had to twist his neck, but he did not mind. His cock was already softening in Javert's grasp; after a moment, he took hold of Javert's hand, slick with only their sweat, and tugged it away. Javert did not protest or remark on it; Javert kept kissing him, his breath uneven and his cock hot inside him.

“Go on,” Valjean whispered after a long moment. Something in his chest felt raw and aching, an old wound torn open once more—but could he resent Javert for that when Javert had also returned something to him that he had thought forever lost?

“Finish. I want to feel you finish.”

Javert groaned. His eyes were dark; his hair, damp with sweat, stuck to his cheek.

Valjean felt sated and warm. He wanted to turn and stroke Javert's face, brush away the strands of hair, fall asleep against his chest. But Javert's cock was still stretching him open, so deep inside him that he could feel the hot skin of Javert's balls brush him, Javert's breath coming in overwhelmed little pants.

“Go on,” Valjean said again, feeling a sudden wave of tenderness take hold of him despite the relentless, raw ache.

Maybe that ache would never go away. Maybe that wound could never be healed. But when Javert buried his face against his neck again, gasping as he slid into him, desperate now in his need, even the rush of wet heat inside him could not drive away the tenderness Valjean felt for him.

He pulled Javert's hand up to his mouth, gently kissing the tense fingers as Javert moaned against his neck. How strange it now felt: the urgent jerks of Javert's hips, the slickness of his seed, the trickles of it escaping his hole every time Javert pulled back.

He uncurled Javert's fingers. He pressed his mouth to the center of his palm, breathing calmly even as Javert's teeth pressed against his shoulder, Javert convulsing in his climax. The pressure of him inside still felt good, all heat and light even though Valjean's own cock curled shyly against his thigh now, a small animal glad to have escaped the grasp of Javert's large hands.

Somewhere, below the calm contentment, the old wound was still aching. Even the balm of Javert's tenderness could not heal it.

Still. To think that Javert had tried... that was nearly enough. 

He touched the tip of his tongue to the palm of Javert's hand. He tasted salt. Behind him, Javert made a desperate little sound, nearly a sob, sliding his prick all the way inside him once more for a final pulse of heat within him, and Valjean sighed and closed his eyes.

The fire Javert had lit within him had burned out quickly. Valjean tried not to be disappointed about that; it was more than he had thought he would ever know again.

Still, in his chest, the embers of it were still glowing, and that sensation was a comfort, as much as Javert's own pleasure in him was.

Even now, Valjean was aware of the rawness of the scar and the touch of Javert's mouth there. But just as real as that aching absence was the pleasure he had felt, and the pleasure he had given. It would have to be enough—it was enough, maybe, to surrender himself to Javert's hands and Javert's gaze once more. And in time, perhaps even the shame would pass.


End file.
